Ugly Little Things

by Todd Keisling

  I lost sight of the creature when Johnny walked in front of me. One moment it was there, the next it wasn’t. You’re probably thinking it was all in my head, or that it was just a phantom of my imagination. You might be right, and you might be wrong about it. All I know is that I saw what I saw, and for the first time it wasn’t in some dream-place of my own creation. It was there, ten feet away, standing off to the side of the stage.

  Johnny shook his head and called out to the others. “No, no, cut it, guys. Come on.”

  Hank and Bobby did as he asked, but looked visibly deflated as they did so. For a full minute they’d been caught up in the fury and joy of the music we’d made together. Now Johnny was interrupting them, shouting for them to stop. And for why? None of us knew.

  Hank caught my eye. He never said anything to me, and he didn’t have to. He looked so defeated right then, like he was trapped and torn between leaving and continuing on without his artistic dignity. Had things not turned out the way they did, I think that would’ve been the end of Hank’s tenure in the band as well. Hell, we probably would’ve flown home to Kentucky together. Maybe Bobby, too.

  “Come on, Johnny,” Hank sighed. “We were jamming, dude. Just let us play.”

  “And I ask you to just trust me on this.” Johnny reached over and took a drink from his water bottle. “You don’t want to burn yourself out before tonight.”

  Hank frowned. “Burn myself out? Christ, man, that’s never going to happen if you don’t let me play.” He nodded to me and Bobby. “Let’s go get lunch.”

  The three of us made our way off the stage, leaving Johnny alone with the instruments. Which was fitting, I think. He felt right at home there. It’s where he’d spend the rest of his life.

  ***

  After lunch, we went back to the hotel to relax for a few hours before sound check. I had a killer headache that I’d hoped to sleep off, popping a few aspirin shortly before falling face-first into bed. I’m not sure how long I lay there, watching the dark colors swirl and dance behind my eyes like a gothic kaleidoscope, but I do remember counting in time to the beating in my skull.

  Sleep hadn’t come easy to me in weeks. Catching a nap was something I’d not been able to do with any regularity since we’d started recording the album. There was simply too much to do, too much on my mind, or worse, too much waiting for me when I closed my eyes. That time, however, I remember I felt particularly safe inside my own head, and for as uncomfortable as it was, the 4/4 beat of my head helped lull me to sleep.

  I should’ve known better. They were waiting for me to let my guard down.

  Well, that’s not quite true. I mean, I’m not sure if that’s true or not. “Waiting” implies they had ill intent, and all these years later, I still don’t know what their intent was.

  The beating in my head ceased, and I opened my eyes. The muted, neutral cream-colored hotel walls were gone, displaced by the open air of Carcosa’s dark shoreline. The briny stench from the hissing tides of Lake Hali wafted over my face, and black stars twinkled in a dusk-lit sky overhead. I sat up on the bed and watched in astonished horror as a pair of reddened moons rose upon the horizon, one eclipsing the other in an eternal cosmic dance. When I turned to follow them, I saw the red congregation marching along the shoreline toward the golden gates of the city.

  A faint song floated along the air, filling my head with its melancholy tune. It wasn’t one of our songs. That much was apparent. The somber tune lacked Johnny’s edge and cadence, and the way the congregation hummed the notes gave it a funerary quality:

  “Songs that the Hyades shall sing / Where flap the tatters of the King / Must die unheard in / Dim Carcosa.”

  I rose from my bed, and against my better judgment, once again made my way down the dune toward the shore. I followed in the footsteps of beings greater than myself, pieces of a cosmic whole I could never fathom, could only speculate upon, serving as a constant reminder that my place in this universal tapestry was but a mere speck of paint. The world itself had taken on a shimmering impressionistic quality, the horizon watery with dim light of the twin moons, and the black stars dripped and bled like disturbed ink.

  I followed the red congregation to the gates of Carcosa. There we paused, and their singing ceased. Together they turned toward me, an army of red and white and gold. The nearest creature approached and stopped before me. It reached out and beckoned to me, gesturing to my chest. I glanced down and discovered I wore an amulet of some crude design, a black onyx jewel carved with a golden sigil. Confused, I clasped the jewel in my hand and held it out before me as far as it would stretch. The robed creature nodded its head in understanding.

  “The yellow sign,” it whispered. A thick, black substance seeped out from beneath the pallid mask like molasses, dribbling over the writhing nubs of worms and soaking into the crimson cowl around the creature’s neck. “A symbol of the King.”

  A sensation of vertigo overcame me, and I turned back to gaze upon my point of origin along the beach. The hotel bed was still there, the blankets wrinkled and disturbed by my exit, and the lamp stood upon the nightstand. The lampshade shuddered in the breeze.

  I turned back to the creature and held up the onyx jewel. “Do you know the Yellow Sign?”

  “I do,” whispered the creature, as thick dollops of black ooze fell over the cuff of the robe and clumped at our feet. It raised one pale hand and unseated the mask from its viscous maw. I sucked in my breath, anticipating the impossible horror that I knew waited beneath that false face, and forced myself not to look away. Dozens of gray worms lazily searched the air like fingers jutting from the rim of that bottomless pit, an endless sinkhole of mystery into which no man could ever venture or know. We stared at one another for a beat, and I struggled to retain my wits. The putrid stench of rot and disease infected the air around us.

  “Will you unmask?”

  I touched my fingers to my face. “Should I?”

  A low hiss of sickly wet air rose up out of the thing’s empty face. “Yes, the time to unmask is at hand.” The creature reached out and brushed its long, pale fingers against my cheek. “Take off your mask.”

  “But I’m—”

  My eyes snapped open to the vibrating buzz of my phone. I sat up with a jolt, kicking my legs over the edge of the bed. The walls of my room were intact, and although the shoreline was gone, I could still smell the sweaty brine stench of . . . what was it? Not an ocean. A lake. But what was it called? No matter how much I searched my memory, I could not remember at the time. The dream-place of Carcosa had that effect.

  The phone kept ringing. Annoyed, I picked it up and answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Aidan? I didn’t think you’d answer.” Reggie’s voice was shaky with relief. “I was starting to think you were ignoring my calls.”

  “No, no way, man. Sorry. I was catching a nap before our show.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. A buddy of mine works for the Times and called to get the scoop. Had to tell him I didn’t have one to give ‘em, can you believe it? Me, without a scoop on my own band?”

  My cheeks flushed with heat. “Reggie, I—”

  “Don’t sweat it, kid. I know it’s not your doing. But I’m calling you about the show, just the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m calling to ask you not to play the show.”

  His words hung in my head for a moment. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? We’ve been rehearsing for a week. Invitations went out two weeks ago. We—”

  “Aidan, listen to me. Just—if you’re going to play, play the old stuff. Don’t play the new stuff.”

  There was fear in his voice, a kind of fear I’d not heard before. He sounded as though he were near tears. The more he spoke, the higher in pitch his voice grew.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. “Reggie, the new stuff is the point. It’s to build hype for the album. To take it for a test drive. You know how it is.”

 
Camilla’s words felt wrong on my tongue, but they came so easily, so naturally, that I felt guilty for uttering them. They were part of a language that Reggie would understand.

  “Yeah, kid, I know that. But please, for God’s sake, I’m begging you, don’t play those songs tonight. I just got a bad feeling.”

  “You never struck me as the superstitious type, Reg.”

  “Always time to start bein’ one, Aidan.”

  “Look, if it’s any consolation, tonight’s my last show. I’m done after this.”

  “I’m beg—wait, really?”

  “You heard me.” I looked at the cheap alarm clock on the nightstand. I needed to get ready twenty minutes ago. “Listen, I’m late as it is. I gotta go. I’ll call you tonight when it’s over.”

  “You can tell me in person. I’ll be there.”

  “Aw, shit, Reg. Tell me you don’t plan on starting anything. Crashing the party isn’t a good idea.”

  “No, I won’t start anything. And I’m not crashing, either.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Wait, what?”

  “Camilla sent me an invitation. Weird, right? That’s why I’ve got a bad feeling, kid. Just please don’t play those songs.”

  I reassured him that everything would be fine and said goodbye, but Reggie’s bad feeling was infectious and followed me into the shower. As I let the scalding water wash over me, I wondered what Camilla was up to. Why would she frame Reggie to keep him away, only to turn around and invite him to the show?

  Looking back on it now, it all seems so obvious, but at the time I was too caught up in my own head to see the forest for the trees. As I got ready for the show, all I could think about was the dream I’d had, and my conversation with the faceless thing on the shore.

  Just before I left to go downstairs to the lobby, I realized what I was going to say to that sickening creature.

  “But I’m not wearing a mask,” I whispered aloud. My hotel room offered no reply, and I left for the show a moment after.

  ***

  There are some things about that night which have left my memory over the years. What Bobby and Hank were wearing, for example. Whenever I call up their images from my mental databank, I can see their faces just fine, but the rest of them are nondescript placeholders, as though their bodies have been swapped out for featureless mannequins.

  I don’t remember our limo driver’s name. I don’t remember what Reggie was wearing when I saw him working his way to the front of the bleeding crowd. My guitar tech’s name escapes me—Wayne or Shawn or Mark, one of those three, but I’ll be damned if I can pinpoint which.

  I do remember how many people were there: 193 reporters, critics, and bloggers, including their plus-ones. If you want to consider the band, techs, roadies, and club staff, you’re looking at another 41 people, for a total of 234 bodies inside that building. Sixteen people shy of its 250-person occupancy rating. 123 men and 111 women.

  Out of those 234 people, 233 of them died that night in a variety of gruesome ways. Out of them all, I’m the only one who survived.

  I can see by the way you’re looking at me that you think my math is off. That there were 235 people in that club, not 234. That there were two survivors, not just one. Me and one other who may have escaped before the inferno consumed the building. The suspected arsonist, Camilla Bierce.

  I stand by my statement: 234 people. Not 235. Adding an extra person to that number would imply Camilla’s a human being.

  Believe me, Mr. Hargrove, she was something much, much worse. She showed us her true nature after our show began. After the time came for everyone at our grand masquerade to take off their masks.

  ***

  A lot of musicians will tell you that they never get over the pre-show jitters, and I was no exception. I always felt nauseated before a show, and my hands would shake until I picked up my guitar. You might say I depended on my Gibson for more than just music; I needed it to steady myself. I felt naked without it any time I was on a stage, getting ready to perform.

  That night I felt the same pre-show trepidation, but it was tainted with a lingering fear at the nape of my neck and a hint of bile at the back of my throat. My mind had become a haunted house, filled with the rattling phantoms of Reggie’s pleas and the faceless beings from Carcosa’s shoreline. I tried to put those ceaseless worries out of my head for the next couple of hours. Focus, I told myself. You’ve got a show to play. It’ll be over before you know.

  We took to the stage while the curtain was down, dressed in the crimson robes of Camilla’s choosing. Noise from the crowd filtered through the thick red fabric, transforming voices into soft murmurs, and I remember thinking they sounded a lot like the hiss of crashing waves.

  The stage itself was fully decorated, our places marked with red duct tape according to Johnny’s geometric diagram. An authentic throne, generously donated by one of Camilla’s connections, stood center stage, draped in gold and red cloth. The statue of King Hastur from Camilla’s apartment stood in front of it, its hidden face pointed toward the crowd. Black candles lined Bobby’s drum set riser, flickering erratically, disturbed by our movement. The wall behind us was sheathed in golden drapery, and from the rafters hung a large plaque adorned with a golden symbol.

  I recognized it immediately. The sign of Camilla’s king. The Yellow Sign.

  “I almost forgot!”

  We turned toward the side of the stage. Camilla wore a red miniskirt with golden trim. I remember because of the way the colors complimented her eyes. They, too, were gold that night. She had a handful of what looked like red lanyards and handed one to each of us.

  “Wear these tonight.” She kissed me on the cheek. “For me. For luck. For the king.”

  At the end of the red ribbon was an onyx jewel, and carved into it was the shape of the same yellow symbol. I looked at it, puzzled. You know that weird feeling you get when you experience déjà vu? It was a lot like that, except it didn’t carry the same weight of novelty. This was far heavier, pushing down on my soul with a kind of dread I’d never experienced before.

  Camilla proceeded to kiss each of us on the cheek. Well, except for Johnny. She sucked face with him for a full minute before pulling away and wiping her lipstick from his lips.

  “Do we have to do this?” Bobby looked at me, and then to Hank. Johnny turned toward us and nodded.

  “Just for tonight, guys.”

  Hank said nothing, and he didn’t have to. The roll of his eyes said all they needed to. We put our good luck charms over our heads, took to our instruments, and waited for our introduction.

  Outside the curtain, Vinnie Klorso walked to the center of the stage, tapped the microphone, and addressed the crowd.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank you all for joining us tonight. The Hyades is proud to host The Yellow Kings for this limited engagement. Before we begin, the band has asked that you please wear the masks that were provided at the door. Go on, it’s all in good fun.”

  Hushed murmurs followed Vinnie’s request. As I’m sure you might have guessed, that request was made by Camilla. The Yellow Kings had nothing to do with it. It’s one of the few things Johnny had a problem with, citing concerns that the crowd wouldn’t be able to see us. Naturally, Camilla eased his mind and got her way.

  A full minute passed before Vinnie spoke. “Excellent, yes, very good. Thank you for participating. Now, on with the show. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my sincere honor to present to you The Yellow Kings and the Final Reconciliation.”

  A swell of cheers erupted from the crowd as the lights went out. I glanced over at Hank, then back to Bobby. Johnny walked forward and took his place behind the throne.

  Bobby raised his drumsticks and counted us off.

  “One, two, three, four—”

  Johnny struck the first power chord of ‘Reconciliatory Matters’, let the crunch resonate across the crowd, and played a full measure until I took the lead. That first solo comes early in the song, and my finge
rs were on fire. As soon as my fingers slid across the fret, the curtains parted and the stage lights washed over us. For a moment I was blinded, but I didn’t need to see. I was playing on pure muscle memory, hitting every note with perfect time, and when the flashing colors left my vision, I saw a sea of white masks staring back at us, all bobbing their heads in time to the music.

  That first instrumental track lasts about two minutes, slowly building to a crescendo that transitions into the second song. Johnny walked out from behind the throne at just the right moment, strutting toward the microphone with his arms outstretched like a rock messiah. The crowd exploded with cheers.

  Johnny took the microphone, clutched the stand, and leaned forward over the pit.

  “She waits beneath a dim sky at dusk,” he sang, “a gypsy out of harrowed time.”

  The response from the crowd was more than we’d expected. After weeks of stress and tension in the band, playing those first few songs really put us back at the heart of why we made music in the first place. I stole a glimpse at Hank and Bobby. They were both smiling.

  There’s something surreal and gratifying about taking something you’ve created in the womb of your own mind, presenting it to others, and watching them respond in a positive way. It’s an addictive sensation, a chemical reaction wrought by our own minds, and perhaps the true reason artists create their art. Standing there on that stage in front of that small crowd of people took me back to the days when we played shows in Bobby’s garage, charging the neighborhood kids a buck a piece to watch us perform. We’d used that money to bribe Hank’s older brother into getting us a twelve-pack of beer.

  Our music wasn’t as raw as it was back then, but what it lacked in crude sound it more than made up for in power. Every note we hit that night had the force of a sucker punch. We didn’t merely play those songs for the crowd; we attacked them, ripping into them like wild animals. We’d starved for weeks in that studio, and now we’d have our nourishment.